Poet’s Corner Press


With Confidence

by Loretta McKeever daily for several months I pause to walk behind you and Isaac with my own son roads and roads away I envy your three day retreat, calamitous though it may be many read your heart with confidence and vie to speak for you nearly all are loud, frightening the ram in the thicket


As I look up I recognize infinity Spreading itself above me Curving behind Western mountains. Allowing the sun to deliver a dazzling farewell of color In perfect harmonious blends across its canvass. In recognition, The Earth shrinks to a mere pebble And I, a grain of sand My worries, dust… Blown away by the magnificence of perspective. Reflective thought within my infinite mind Spins on its invisible axis. I was made in this image Through faith, willed into being. No separation here, no parallel either. Only a demand of co-existence and a willful submission To the laws of the infinite universe That I swallowed up billions of years ago, And which lives in me And births its miracles through ...

Odd Couple

The devil lives with me He moved in some time ago He cooks for me and never burns a thing He spends hours and hours in the kitchen Says it’s where he feels most comfortable, ya know He tells me to leave when I complain of the heat It gets on his nerves when I do that So mostly I stay in my room until the meals are served When I go down, the table is always beautifully set, and the meals, well, it pains me to say this because he works so hard — but they are always just awful!

Space Walk

By Shonda Renée When it is said I love you One feasts on delicacies to die for Licking, nibbling and sucking things From shells that slide down your throat Into your belly — where you live. You lay pearls that never lead you back They only push you forward Toward the edge of the planet And an obligatory step into encased space Naked in bare faith. There, stars wink conceit and hover arrogantly Mumming their secrets Or maybe they really don’t know why, how or what for. You glimpse a falling spectacle Once held in pure black love Now screaming from the scene Because one or the other let go You wish nobody let go Still, there are ...


by Patricia Wellingham-Jones At dawn on a breath-stealing day we took coffee and chocolate milk and mangoed oatmeal to wood chairs by the creek. Our hair feathered in the breeze like dandelion fluff in the last swish of coolness before the north wind fired up the valley. An otter family tumbled sleek brown bodies, splashed among rocks. Fish flicked silver in the white sun of noonday. As finches dipped beaks in a drying bird bath three small boys yipped and shrilled like parrots in the wild of the creekbank. Flung water, smelly sneakers, deflated balls. The western sun slanted apricot rays through cottonwoods. Over the bridge pedaled a mother and daughter in red helmets. Just ...


Judges Award Winners 2002 Turlock Arts Commission Poetry Contest 3rd place by Sheila D. Landre Modesto Bobbie Watson, she was gracious, the way she wore her garden hat among the bearded iris, every color, row on row, bending to her gloved caress. She would smile and talk to violets by the doorstep and make sure the cats each had a sunny spot to nap. Bobbie Watson, she was gracious, the way she sat so regally in an antique chair in her handmade house, pastel portraits of her children on the wall. She paid such close attention, asked such thoughtful questions, listened. Bobbie Watson, she was gracious, the way she comforted and held me in her warm embrace the day of Ernie's funeral --How suddenly ...

My Uncle’s Felt Suit

Judges Award Winners 2002 Turlock Arts Commission Poetry Contest 2nd place by Gary Thomas Turlock Uncle Josef took the blankets from the barracks after basic training, laundered them, pressed them on the mangle, pinned the pattern of his prewar business suit to the flat beige rectangles that had sheltered so many young bodies bound for so many wars, and with his tailor's shears sliced himself a three-button jacket, two pairs of pleated pants, with matching vest and enough left over for a homberg, fedora, jaunty beret. All this because of skill, supply, demand for young men elsewhere.


Judges Award Winners 2002 Turlock Arts Commission Poetry Contest 1st place by Salvatore Salerno Modesto I'm amazed. He has silk and crimson roses, clearly the floral trophies of our block, but that's not why I am amazed: he's eighty-two, smokes Pall Malls, has a broken nose and face reflecting every weather, but that's not why I am amazed: but this, the way he works each day to keep his yard and roses shining, how he throws his tools at sunset on his lap, and rolls his legless body up the ramp.


By Nancy Wahl 1. Time was large once, roomy parabolas around long, slow days that wound through corridors between anticipations.  You could scream at the top of your lungs allee allee oxen free with your friends throwing brown rubber balls over rooftops, or sit for hours on green lawns building miniature cairns out of colored bits of glass, arranging them in orbits like stars. Pick bunchy little dandelions and wonder why, always why, the yellow was magic.  Birthdays, Christmases, and summers were all coordinates outside Cartesian spaces, circled on predictable calendars. 2. Because he’s younger than we, our guide paces himself and motions us on as the trail gets steeper, twisting into narrow turns around glacier-polished rocks with shining surfaces ...


By Nancy Wahl She stood there, not tip-toe like Keats upon his little hill reaching for beauty, but all atwitter in white shorts and tennies on my front porch.  So much brightness she was: her yellow blouse, sun reflected in her eyes, love of her new husband on her skin. They had planted a garden and, good neighbor, she was bringing me a basket of bright red vine-ripened tomatoes—her young bride’s smile rousing memories of my own beginnings—summers at Lake Tahoe, a first kiss: my Winandermere shores around which I would wander in youthful ecstasies, elated, with unbearable anticipations: fears growing like mountain lichen in my unconscious—always the sense there must be endings.  On a television documentary, a young woman in ...


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